The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  .

  “Andrew, Andrew,” Guy is shaking me hard, trying to wake me up. “Andrew, open your eyes! Andrew!”

  “What? What is it?” I ask, struggling to wake up and adjust to reality, the dream still running in my mind’s eye. “What’s happened? Is Sal okay?”

  “Yes. Yes. Andrew, she moved her finger. She moved her finger!”

  The image of the taxi is fading now, the man’s face is no longer visible.

  “What? She woke up?” I ask, sitting up, Guy pacing the bedroom in front of me.

  “No. No. She didn’t wake up. But she moved her finger. I was talking to her, holding her hand in mine, telling her how much I loved her. I asked her if she remembered me proposing to her, and if she loved me, and just as I said it, her finger moved in my hand. I felt it. I’m sure she was trying to tell me something.”

  “Did you tell the doctor?”

  “No. He wasn’t there, but I told the nurse. She said it was a good sign. She said, it definitely gave us something to be hopeful about. Andrew, do you think she might get better?”

  I can see the hope in his eyes, and I know that he wants me to give him hope in return to his question, so I lie. I don’t like to lie, but perhaps a white lie is alright, now and again.

  “Yes Guy. Sal is going to get better. I’m sure of it. The finger thing is just the start. This time next week, she’ll be sitting up, walking around like normal and maybe even fit enough to leave the hospital.”

  “Do you really think so?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. “…In fact, I just dreamt it.”

  .

  .

  Chapter Thirty One

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  .

  The next day drags by at work. I spend most of the morning and the afternoon thinking about Wednesday night, and planning where to go and what to do with MBW. It’s a long time since I have been this excited about meeting someone, and I feel like a little kid again, going on his first date after school.

  Just after lunch I get an email from Gail, asking if she can take me out for a drink on Wednesday night, saying that maybe she was a little harsh to me about Dianne. When I reply, I can’t help but tell her that I have to say no to her because I am going out on a date with a woman I met at the hospital, and Gail immediately replies, asking me about her, “Is she pretty? Do you like her? Where are you taking her?” and other questions that even I don’t yet know the answers to.

  Guy has taken the week off work, and he spends the whole day by himself at the hospital, full of hope that today will be the day she wakes up, or moves a hand, or a leg. I offer to go and visit her in the evening, but he says that Mandy has arranged for one of her other friends to stop by.

  “Is it a woman or a man?” I ask, perhaps stupidly.

  “A woman. I don’t think she knows many other men. Why?”

  “Oh,...no reason. I was just thinking if it was a man, I might stop by anyway, but if it’s one of her female friends, I would rather leave them alone together.”

  “What difference does it make?” he asks.

  “I can’t stand all that crying,” I lie, and then change the subject, realising that I am digging myself a big hole.

  .

  Later that night I talk to Hannah, filling her in on the latest. She has some news for me too, informing me that at long, long last, she has received a letter from the solicitor, informing her that the sale of our father’s house has gone through and has finally been completed, and that the balance of the outstanding funds have been deposited in our respective accounts.

  It’s good news. I suppose. It’s something that we’ve both been looking forward to for a long time. When dad died, the house was jointly left to us in his will. We let it out for awhile, knowing that the property market in Edinburgh was going through the roof, but a few months ago the solicitors advised us that it had probably reached its peak and we should consider selling it to maximise the price we would get. Over the years the house had gone up significantly in value, and when we finally had it valued we were both stunned to find out that it was worth £550,000. Theoretically that makes me pretty rich for someone my age, but the joy that should accompany sudden wealth is significantly dampened by a heavy feeling of loss which weighs down upon me for the rest of the evening: the house in which we grew up, where we laughed and played, and lived with my dad for so many happy years is finally gone. Even sadder than losing the house is the feeling that we have just cut the final physical connection between us and our father. Now the only tangible thing that connects us to him is a tombstone and a hole in the ground.

  I try to shake off the sadness and morbidity which has descended upon me, and pick up one of the local property papers that are posted through our letterbox every week. So, what can £225,000 buy me here in London then?

  When I go to bed ten minutes later I am even more depressed than before. It would appear, that I am not as rich as I thought. £225,000 in London buys you nothing. Nothing at all.

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  .

  Wednesday is a beautiful day, and I wake up excited, determined to make my date this evening as enjoyable as possible. My cunning plan includes dinner at the Lemon Tree,- the best Thai in town-, followed by taking Slávka to see Helen Boulding in concert at a pub somewhere in Holborn, a gig that I learned about only yesterday when surfing her website at work. The timing could not have been better.

  .

  At lunchtime Guy calls me, jumping up and down with excitement, shouting down the phone, “I asked her if she wanted to marry me and she moved her finger again. But this time she moved two of them. I saw it! And she breathed in really deeply at the same time. It was brilliant. The doctor was really pleased. He said it moved her one point up the Glasgow Scale, which is apparently really good news although I don’t know what it means. Andrew, I think,…I mean, I know she could hear me. I think she was trying to let me know that she loves me.” He is so excited, I can’t help but feel happy for him, but when we finish talking and he hangs up, my thoughts take on a more negative track, returning to the whole issue of Sal deceiving Guy, and her messing around with someone else behind his back. I begin to feel guilty that while I know the truth, Guy is ripping himself apart, his love for her driving him mad with worry. Two pictures pop into my mind: one of Guy slouched over her bed, cradling her hand in his, patiently waiting by her side, trying to nurse her back to life; another, side by side in my mind's eye, is of another man’s hand stuck up Sal’s blouse, exploring her breasts, her head cocked back in erotic euphoria, enjoying every second of it. How much longer can I keep my mouth shut? Should I not tell Guy that the woman he is pining away after is in fact a two-timing bitch, who might run off with another man as soon as she wakes up? How would he feel if he knew the truth? Would he still be sitting there day after day, stroking the hair out of her eyes and watching every breath that she makes?

  .

  Gail calls me at five o’clock to wish me luck for the date, and making a point of dropping into the conversation that she is now going to go out for the evening with Ben. I look over at him, sitting only feet away from me in the office. It occurs to me that he hasn’t mentioned Gail to me once since they started seeing each other, even though we talk business at work every day.

  “Thank you. I hope you enjoy your evening too,” I say to her, still looking at Ben. He catches my eyes and turns to smile at me, pointing to his watch and indicating that we only have thirty minutes to go.

  “Can I see you on Thursday night? Can we meet up for a chat then?” Gail asks me.

  “Probably,” I reply, “…although I may have to go to the hospital.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she volunteers.

  “It’s nice of you to ask, but probably not just now. Guy or Mandy or her friends may be there.”

  “Can we talk on Friday then, at the Lemon Tree?”

  “Sure. If I go. I don’t know what’s happening on Friday night yet. I might
want to try and drag Guy out for the evening. He needs a break.”

  “Okay. Well, it would be great to see you when you have some time. What about the weekend?”

  “Could be. Maybe Saturday night, depending upon when I get back. I have to go and visit someone in Mitcham on Saturday or Sunday.”

  “Fine. I understand. Can you just let me know when you are free. Promise me?”

  “Do you think I should buy her flowers?” the question popping out of my mouth before I can qualify it.

  “Sal? What’s the point. She can’t see them.”

  “No, for the woman I’m seeing this evening. Would you like it if someone bought you flowers on a first date?”

  “Yes. I would,” she replies, hesitating for second. “I’m almost jealous. It sounds like she’s going to be a lucky woman. I hope you have a good evening. Anyway, got to rush now… Bye…”, and she hangs up.

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  .

  Emerging into the sunlight from the underground tube station at the Embankment, I nervously scan the crowd of people already waiting outside the entrance, who like me, have arranged to meet their friends, relatives or potential lovers at one of London’s busiest but most convenient meeting places.

  I am ten minutes early, and realising that she is thankfully not yet here, I hurry back into the tube station entrance and buy a packet of strong mints from one of the newsagents who do a roaring trade from London commuters, and then I quickly chew two of the mints in an effort to ensure that my breath is fresh.

  Walking back outside, I look closely at the ten red roses I have brought with me. They cost a fortune and they do look beautiful, but now I am standing waiting for her to arrive I feel really uncomfortable having them with me. Although Gail seemed to think that giving flowers to a woman on the first date would be a good thing to do, I am no longer so sure.

  Will I not just make a fool of myself? Will MBW not think that I am too keen if I give her roses? What happens if it’s just too over the top and I scare her off? What happens if she doesn’t actually look upon this as being a date? …Ouch, so many questions.

  I stand there outside of the entrance, nervously shifting from foot to foot, trying to make up my mind, knowing that at any moment she may step out of the tube station. Looking around I see another man a few metres away from me, also obviously waiting for someone special. He is dressed up smartly, and checking his watch every few minutes. Without much further thought I sidle across to him, and ask him, “Excuse me, can you tell me what time it is?”

  “Almost five past seven.”

  “Thanks. Are you waiting for your girlfriend?”

  He looks at me questioningly.

  “Yes,” he says. “She’s late.”

  “Mine too. Listen, I’ve bought my girlfriend some flowers, but we’re going dancing now, so we can’t really carry them. Do you want them? You can have them for nothing, if you think your girlfriend would like them?”

  He looks at me, then the flowers, and he smiles.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “Here you are,” stretching out my arm and giving them to him.

  “Honestly. You don’t want anything for them?”

  “No. I hope your girlfriend likes them.”

  I smile back at him, and walk back to where I was standing a few minutes before.

  I look at my watch. It’s eight minutes past seven.

  “Am I late?” a soft, warm voice asks me.

  I look up, bursting into a uncontrollable smile by the sight that greets me. MBW is standing in front of me, her long curly blonde hair glistening in the early evening sunlight. At a first glance it’s obvious that MBW has gone to some trouble to make herself look good this evening and I feel flattered that she felt me important enough to make the effort. She’s wearing a casual but smart brown skirt, a light green jumper and white blouse, stockings and black high heel shoes, with a thin black leather jacket draped over her arm. She looks absolutely stunning and suddenly I feel very self-conscious and left wondering if I have made enough of an effort myself.

  “Hi,” I say, immediately fighting with the urge to start complimenting her and tell her just how amazing he looks. “You’re looking very nice,” I say, quickly moving on. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  She smiles modestly. I suspect that she is quite used to hearing compliments, and over the years she has learned to accept them gracefully.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Andrew. I am also sorry I must run away last time to do plumbing. Tonight, I hope we more have time to talk.”

  We start to walk up the Embankment, passing the man with the flowers who is just now being covered in kisses from his girlfriend who appears genuinely overwhelmed to have received them.

  “Aha. Such beautiful red roses!…She is very lucky girl,” Slávka says as we pass them. “She has very romantic boyfriend. English men are so charming.”

  I glance backward at the woman still cuddling and kissing her boyfriend, who sees me over her shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up sign as a token of thanks. Blast.

  “So,” I say, trying to write off my first mistake of the evening and move swiftly on, “…what would you like to eat? I was thinking that we could go to my favourite Thai restaurant. Do you like Thai?”

  “Oh yes.” Slávka replies. “I love spicy food. Thai is very nice. I haven’t eaten that for long time, so is good idea.”

  “I have to warn you that it’s not exactly a restaurant. Actually it’s a room just above a pub called the Lemon Tree, just around the corner from here, but it makes the best Thai food I’ve ever tasted. If you like Thai, you’ll love it!”

  “You promise?”, her eyes twinkling.

  “I promise.”

  As we walk up the hill from the Embankment to Charing Cross train station, for the first time since the bombings of last week I once again sense the excitement that London life offers. Whatever that magic ingredient is that normally permeates the air in the city centre, whatever that sense of excitement that tantalises and entices those attracted to the big lights and the city centre, tonight it is back.

  “How long have you been in England, Slouka?” I ask, wanting to learn as much about her as possible, hoping to be able to delete the “M” from “MBW”.

  “I am here now for fifteen months.”

  “Do you like it, or do you miss home.”

  “Oh, I love here. Yes I miss home too. I miss sisters and parents and town I live in, but now I think I find it hard go home live there. Home town is now too small, not exciting like here. For example, only theatre is in next big city one hour away. We not have five theatres in just one street, like Shaftesbury Avenue!” she laughs.

  “You have sisters?”

  “Oh, yes. Two small sisters. Little one is sixteen years old, bigger one eighteen.”

  “Aha…” I reply, dying to ask how old Slávka is.

  “You too have sisters or brothers?” she asks, as we approach the entrance to the Lemon Tree.

  “One sister. Older, called Hannah.”

  “In London too?”

  “No. Back in Edinburgh, where I come from.”

  “Yes, I remember. You not English. You Scottish.” She says, laughing again.

  I like it when she laughs: her eyes twinkle, and I love the way her laughter sounds, slightly sexy, but not overtly so.

  She follows me as we enter the Lemon Tree and I force a little path for us through the busy bar towards the stairs at the back of the pub, climbing to the second floor and luckily finding a table by the window overlooking the street below.

  “So, Andrew, what do you recommend for drink and eat?” Slávka asks, picking up a menu from the table and studying it.

  “Oh, if you like ‘hot’, I would definitely recommend the “Chicken Thai Green Curry”, but if you want mild, then I’d go for the Phad Thai stir fry. And I always like to drink the Bombadeer Beer.”

  “It’s an English Ale, or a beer?�
�� she asks.

  The question stumps me, and I have to admit rather sheepishly that I don’t actually know what the difference between an Ale and a Beer is. “I think it’s a beer.”

  “You recommend it, so I try it. I am not coward, so I also try Green Curry. But I not like chicken, so….”she says, summing up the other options, “…I choose Prawn.”

  A few minutes later a waitress pops up from the bar downstairs and takes our order, reappearing minutes later with our drinks.

  “Interesting bar,” Slávka comments, looking around at the myriad of framed cinema posters on the wall, each one promoting some classic famous film from the past ten years. “Ah,” she says, pointing to the one above my head, “I see this film once. Very good film.”

  I turn around, twisting my neck to see the large advertisement for “A Perfect Murder” with Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.

  “I’ve seen it too…yep, great film. But my favourite film of all time was an old film called The Poseidon Adventure. My dad had it on DVD. Have you ever seen it?” I ask, the conversation easily leading us into an discussion on our likes and dislikes in films and music.

  The meal arrives about ten minutes later and we start to eat, already beginning to enjoy each other's company.

  “So, Andrew. What do you know about Slovakia?” she asks.

  “Not much. Except that it used to be part of Czechoslovakia but split apart a while ago. I’ve got to be honest, I keep getting it confused with Slovenia. They sound like they somehow both stem from the same root name. Are Slovenians anything to do with Slovakians?”

  “No,” she says, shaking her head and reaching for her glass of beer. Her face is going a little red.

  “Sorry,” she gasps, quickly swallowing several mouthfuls of beer. “I just eat hot chilli!”

  “Oops. I should have warned you about them. Do you want me to get you some water?”